February 29, 2012

Scott and I still go to counseling once every other week, and we probably will for a while.  There was a point when we went every week, and I still went to individual grief counseling every week as well.  When Ethan was still in counseling, this meant that I spent the majority of my days either in counseling or sitting in a waiting room at Solace House while Ethan completed a session with his counselor.  Eventually, Ethan didn’t need counseling anymore, and I didn’t have a huge need for individual counseling either.  It wasn’t that we were “healed” or anything like that; it’s that we took the techniques that we learned from our counselors and figured out how to use them in our daily lives on our own.  I guess we were ready to give it a try on our own.  That’s the whole point of counseling:  to teach you how to cope on your own.   For good reason, Scott and I have continued to go to counseling together.  We’re not really trying to “fix” anything, but we are trying to learn how to grieve together and also how to heal together.  We have always had a pretty strong relationship.  Yes, we disagree and we argue, but somehow we have both been able to keep the bigger picture in mind.  We aren’t good at fighting, and we don’t do it often.  We are, however, very good at compromising, so we do that often.  I don’t just feel lucky to have a husband like Scott; I know that I’m lucky.  I know that I’m blessed, and sometimes I have felt that I got way more than I deserve with him.  No matter what has gone on or what issues we’ve had, I have always known without a doubt that Scott loves me to the core and with everything he has.  I know that he would do anything for me and that he would never do anything to risk what we have.  He listens, he understands, he cares, and he gives.  Scott is the most selfless person I know.  I can’t say enough good things about him.  That is why we go to counseling.  Because he means too much to me to not do anything and everything in my power to make sure that we are on this journey together.  Because he deserves all of my efforts.  Because he is my partner in everything, including losing a child.  Because I need to know that he will be okay.

At our last counseling session, Scott told our counselor about his day with candor.  He had a bad day, he said.  She wondered what made it bad.  Was there something in particular?  It turns out, there was something.  A pretty big something, in my opinion.  Scott has gotten into the habit of “checking on” Ethan since Max died.  He is terrified that Ethan will die.  I am too.  For most people, this fear can be written off as irrational or unfounded, but we aren’t “most people” anymore.  Ethan usually wanders into our bed at some point in the early morning hours, so checking on him has become a little bit easier, but it’s not done any less frequently.  On this particular morning, Scott woke up and looked at Ethan in our bed.  He looked too still.  Scott touched him, and he was cold to the touch.  He picked up Ethan’s arm, and it flopped back on the bed.  Scott was sure that Ethan was dead.  He put his hand near Ethan’s mouth and nose to feel for breathing, but he felt nothing.  Panic set in, and Scott picked Ethan up, just as he had picked up Max on June 10^th.  Ethan still didn’t react.  Scott said his name and shook him a little.  Still no reaction.  Finally, Scott said, Ethan opened his eyes and looked at Scott.  In Scott’s words, Ethan’s facial expression seemed to say, “WTF, dad?”  That’s the only funny part of the story.  On a side note, I do think that we will become quite accustomed to that look in the years to come.  Scott is the one who woke up to find Max unresponsive and not breathing that morning, and this event echoed all of his findings that morning.  Obviously, the end result was quite different.  I cannot imagine how Scott must have felt in those moments when he was convinced that Ethan too was dead.  I cannot imagine how he even got out of bed that morning and went on with his day, but he did.  Of course, the day was a wash from that moment, but he still did everything that he was supposed to.  He took a shower, got dressed, got Ethan ready, helped him brush his teeth, and then dropped off his little boy at school and said goodbye.  He did all of this just a few hours after reliving the worst day of his life and convincing himself that it was all happening again.  I think I forgot to mention how strong Scott is.  And if he is the husband I described earlier, then can you imagine him as a father?  He’s amazing.  Truly. 

Hearing Scott talk about his morning made me realize how different our world is now.  June 10^th marked the beginning of a completely new world to us, one that is scary at times and one in which your worst fears sometimes become your reality.  It is a world in which you look at your child and picture him dead.  It’s a world in which that thought isn’t even remotely impossible.  In fact, sometimes it seems more possible than impossible.  One of my friends, a fellow SIDS mom who is also pregnant, posted on Facebook the other day that she yearned for the innocence of new parents whose only worry is when they will sleep.  I yearn for that too.  I live in this world where it’s not silly anymore to think that my child could die.  The idea of a plane crashing into my house isn’t even a laughing matter anymore.  When I worry that Ethan’s growing pains are really the early signs of bone cancer, it’s not as easy to laugh it off and push that thought out of my mind anymore.  I used to be comforted by the fact that the odds were in our favor.  Do you know what the odds are of having a baby die of SIDS?  Now, odds don’t matter.  Anything can happen.  In this new world, no one is safe.  Every stranger, every co-worker, every friend, and every family member is a potential victim.  It gives the saying “It’s your world; we’re just living in it” a whole new meaning.  Usually I try to end on a positive note, but I think I’ve kind of dug myself too deep of a hole here.  I’ll just end by saying that this “new” world is quite unsettling and scary and sad, but I’m learning to live with it.  So is Scott.  It’s just a new part of our new life, and that’s okay.  We’ll never stop worrying that Ethan will die.  We’ll always worry about Quinn and any future children that we may have.  We’ll worry about our families, our friends, even complete strangers.  We’ll worry about each other.  Unfortunately, we’ll always know that we could be right for worrying.  This worrying, though, comes from a place of deep loss, but of deep love too.  It comes along with knowing that what you hold dear might be ripped from your arms tomorrow, so you better enjoy holding on to it while you still can.

February 12, 2012

Once again, way too much time has passed since my last post.  I don’t have a good excuse, but I have plenty of excuses.  I’m in that stage of pregnancy when “tired” is how you describe your daily mood.  I’m busy at work, and I’m all too good at letting that dominate my thoughts and actions.  I’m not sure what to write, which isn’t a new thing, but how I have been responding to it sure is.  I get down on myself because I do exactly what I demand that my students NOT do:  give up when I don’t know how to do something.  My brain just feels like a big old circus of ideas lately, but I can’t seem to find the words to express those ideas.  Isn’t it strange how that happens?  I can explain them perfectly in my head; I know EXACTLY what they are, but I can’t give them meaning externally.  It’s frustrating.  Maybe that’s what they call “writer’s block?”  I NEED to write something, so I’ll just do what I urge my Writer’s Workshop students to do when they hit an impasse:  write whatever is in your head, even if it seems pointless.  Most of the time, a pattern emerges and something wonderful happens.  Other times, you spit out a bunch of pointless, meaningless garbage, but at least it’s out of your head then, right?

We found out that we are having a girl.  The sonographer wouldn’t confirm the gender, but he gradually increased from “60% sure” to “98% sure” that there is a little girl growing inside of me.  As the mother of two boys, I know that there are telltale signs, and I know how to spot them.  An unborn child doesn’t know enough tricks to be able to hide a penis and testicles.  I remember getting my first sonogram with Max around 13 or 14 weeks.  As soon as his image came up on the screen, we noticed that he was spread eagle and therefore revealing his sex to us.  Scott and I both looked at each other with big smiles.  We knew he was a boy before the sonographer said a word.  This time, as soon as the image of our unborn child came up on the screen, we also noticed the spread eagle position.  What we DIDN’T see is what let us know that we were dealing with something totally new here.  With girls, you are supposed to see three lines, but they are difficult to see until later sonograms.  With girls, sonographers are forbidden to confirm the sex until these later sonograms.  Although I probably should feel that the gender of our baby is still a little unknown, I don’t.  I have the images to prove it, one of which clearly shows three lines.  Nicole has confirmed this.  She may not be a doctor, but she is one of the smartest people I know, so I take what she says as the absolute truth.  My mom and Scott were in the room during the sonogram; they both know that it’s a girl too.  If my next sonogram shows the “twig and berries” that I’m so used to seeing on the screen, then I will be truly amazed and probably begin to question my sanity. 

We’re having a girl.  I thought we were done after Max, so I envisioned my life as the mother of two boys.  That’s how it was going to be.  Always.  Sometimes a lifetime is much shorter than you expect, though, and then your “always” ceases to exist.  Nothing is guaranteed to “always” be the way it was going to be, the way that you thought it would be or should be.  Our “always” includes a girl now.  It’s strange.  I very clearly remember the moment when I realized that I could end up having a girl instead of the boy that I did have and should have.  It wasn’t long after Max died.  I wasn’t pregnant, but I wanted to be.  I wanted to be pregnant with a boy.  If I’m honest with myself, I wanted to be pregnant with Max.  I desperately wanted another chance.  I wanted to do it all again, to change a few tiny things that would maybe give him a few more days, weeks, or, just maybe, much longer.  Grief isn’t a mental state that encourages logical thinking.  Anyway, I had this image in my mind that I would have another baby, and of course it would be a boy.  What else could it be?  I guess maybe I was desperate to hang onto the thought that my life still could be what I had begun to imagine it would be before Max died and everything changed.  The thought never crossed my mind that I could end up having a little girl.  Until one day, when the thought did cross my mind.  It wasn’t a good moment.  It was a sad one.  A weird one, even.  Why hadn’t I thought of that before?  Maybe my brain just wouldn’t allow me to since it was so contrary to what I wanted.  Maybe it did cross my mind and I just pushed it away until the moment when it came rushing back with such force that it couldn’t be ignored.  Who knows.  I remember feeling a little bit of horror.  I’m ashamed to admit that I was so turned off by the idea of having a girl, but I’m also proud at how far I’ve come since that moment.  I realized that I clearly wasn’t ready to have another baby.  I mean, who gets pregnant, determined that they are going to have one sex over the other?  Let me revise that question:  What kind of logical person gets pregnant determined that the only happy outcome is to have a baby of a specific sex?  Those are some pretty lofty shoes for an innocent baby to fill.  One of my areas of focus in therapy became preparing myself to have another baby.  My goal, our goal, was to reach the point where we felt ready to have a baby of any sex.  After months of working on it, here we are.

Things are obviously going to be different.  We realize that.  We won’t really understand it until our little girl is born, but we’re expecting a whole new experience.  I never thought I would say this and mean it, but having a girl is a relief in many ways.  If that sounds heartless, please let me explain.  Max’s room is full of things.  It’s full of HIM.  His bedding, his clothes, his car seat, his blankets, his diaper bag.  We struggled for much of my early pregnancy with what to do with these things.  Do we let a new baby wear clothes that Max wore?  If not, then can the new baby wear the clothes that Max never got to wear?  Do we change the bedding in the crib that Max was barely old enough to use?  Can the new baby use his blankets?  What about the diaper bag?  Is that Max’s or is that mine?  Can we bear to put a new baby into the car seat that still smells like Max?  Do we dare do any of these things?  These are decisions that we would have to make, and they would be much harder if we were having a boy who could actually use all of Max’s old things.  Since we’re having a girl, many of these decisions are made for us.  Max’s clothes are clearly boy clothes.  Max’s bedding is clearly boy bedding.  Max’s blankets are pretty boyish.  So, it is a relief to not have to make these decisions.  It is a relief to be able to agree to store all of these things instead of wonder how we will react if we see our new baby wearing a piece of clothing that we can only associate with Max.  It is a relief to have to buy new things, although I still hate going to the baby section of any store.  I don’t suppose that will change.  In so many ways, having a girl gives us a fresh start and a new experience that we could really use right now.  It gives us a chance to really live the life that we have been given instead of constantly feeling like we are living the life that we wanted with Max.  I’m not going to lie and say that having a girl makes everything better.  Being pregnant has been hard for me emotionally.  It has been a mixed bag for me.  Pregnancy has brought anticipation and apprehension, excitement and anxiety, and hopefulness and a heightened sense of my loss at the same time.  It has been a challenge, but then I look at how far we’ve come as a family, and I can’t help but feel like this could be our reward.  We’ve worked hard at allowing ourselves to feel sadness as well as happiness.  While this baby will probably magnify both of those things, she is such a welcome addition to our “always.”